


Meeting Cedric

by wheel_pen



Series: Nicobar [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, F/M, M/M, Nicobar, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 15:44:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4925515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another member of the Holmes family takes an interest in John, reminding him of his tenuous and powerless position as a slave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meeting Cedric

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.  
> This story is set in a fictional modern country where slavery is legal. There is a huge disparity between the very rich, who sequester themselves in luxurious compounds, and the rest of the population.  
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.  
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

Whenever Sherlock went away, John was sent straight to the Infirmary to work. He could only figure he was tainted by association with the man and it was felt no one else would be interested in him—much like Molly. She usually went to work in the slave children’s quarters in Sherlock’s absence—they didn’t even seem to appreciate her in the Gardens anymore. Which frankly was for the best, in John’s opinion.

Sometimes, when he worked in the Infirmary for long enough, he occasionally felt capable again. Ironically less medical knowledge was usually required of him here than on one of Sherlock’s cases, but there was something satisfying about accomplishing things on his own, like the trusted doctor he used to be.

Today, he was doing an inventory. Not the most glamorous or complex medical job. But the pharmaceuticals storeroom was well-stocked and you had to be detailed-oriented to catch all the differences in the drug names—knowing what they did, or knowing how to quickly find out, was quite helpful in this regard. Also, the staff were fairly conscientious and usually put things back in the right place— _usually_. All the more important, then, to not get complacent, and be on the lookout for the few mistakes they _did_ make.

Alright, it was not the sort of fulfilling life he’d envisioned for himself in medical school, but he had to cling to _something_ to stay sane.

He heard footsteps approaching down the hall and had the sense someone was standing in the doorway, but his eyes were busy darting from the labels on a collection of pill bottles to the clipboard on his knee, with occasional detours to some notes propped on a nearby shelf or the laptop on the desk. In other words he was a little preoccupied.

“I’m looking for John-221,” a voice said. John stole a brief glance at the man—about thirty, mild-looking.

“You found him,” he replied, checking something off on the clipboard.

The man walked closer and was silent for a moment. “ _You’re_ John?” he finally commented, sounding a bit incredulous. “The one Sherlock frequents?”

At this, John set aside the tray of pill bottles and turned in his chair. The tone, the phrasing—this could only be a member of the family. He wasn’t sure who, though. “Can I help you?” he asked politely.

Upon closer inspection John got the distinct impression of someone who was… spoiled. Like bad milk. A kind of arrogance that came with always getting what you wanted, and liking it that way. Frankly not rare in the family. The man looked him up and down like a car he was thinking of taking for a test drive.

“Stand up,” he ordered John, who did so. “Turn around.”

He did. “Did you have a question about something?” he asked, because he couldn’t make himself just obey quietly.

“If I have a question, I’ll ask it,” the man told him sharply. “Well I guess Sherlock’s not in it for your looks,” he assessed.

“Excuse me?” John snorted, more at the audacity of the rude comment than at his bruised ego.

“Yeah, I heard you had a bad attitude,” the man responded. “And you must be a real pain freak to handle Sherlock.”

John was starting to become irritated with this man. “Maybe you’d like to talk to one of the doctors,” he suggested, starting to walk past him to the door. He’d rather have some witnesses around anyway.

The man had other ideas, though. He grabbed John’s arm, hard, and shoved him back against the counter, the edge digging painfully into his lower back. He quelled his defensive instincts only with difficulty, gripping the counter behind him to keep himself from fighting back. The man smirked, and it was nasty. “I’m not done _talking_ to you, John,” he sneered.

John took a breath to calm himself. “I’m working right now,” he stated evenly. “I have a job to finish—“

“Your job is whatever _I_ say it is,” the man claimed, and he grabbed his jaw to hold him in place. Then he crushed his lips against John’s, forcing his tongue into his mouth. There were many things John _could_ have done—biting his tongue off or kneeing him in the groin came to mind—but those things were not good for John’s long-term survival. He could hardly help tensing up and trying to turn his body away, though.

The man finally pulled back, hand still squeezing his jaw—he’d have bruises for sure. “I guess you’ll do,” he decided. He let John go, practically throwing him away. “I’ll be requesting you soon,” he promised. Then he turned and walked off—and on his way out, trailed his hand across a shelf of pill bottles, deliberately knocking them to the floor. Just to show he could.

John stayed in place for a moment, knuckles white as they held onto the edge of the counter, trembling with the effort of not venting his fury. When he thought he could safely release himself, he went to the sink and spit in it, pouring himself more water to rinse his mouth out.

There was a knock on the doorway and John spun around, hoping the man hadn’t come back—because he didn’t think he’d be able to control himself. Instead it was one of the nurses, Tamsin. She gave John and the mess on the floor a dubious look.

“Who was that?” John sputtered to her. “The man who just left here, did you see him?”

“That’s Cedric Holmes,” she told him, and John felt even sicker inside—Cedric, the cousin Sherlock didn’t like, the one who’d hit Molly in the past. “John, are you okay?” Tamsin asked him, with genuine concern. She was a free person, but nice like that.

He turned back to the sink to wash his hands. “Yeah,” he sighed, “but I would love to deck that guy.”

“Cedric Holmes?” Tamsin repeated in alarm. “John, he’s a family member, you can’t—“

His back still to her, he raised a hand. “I know, I know.”

“You shouldn’t even talk about it.” At least she sounded worried that he would get into trouble, and not offended at the idea of attacking certain people from ruling houses. Some family members, he knew, weren’t any nicer to staff—they were socially inferior, so they might as well be slaves for all the family cared.

John turned back around, trying to pull himself together, and started to pick up the bottles Cedric had knocked over. “Why don’t you go back to your room, John?” Tamsin suggested, and his temper flared even though he knew she was trying to help. “I’ll get someone else to finish the—“

“No, I can finish it,” John snapped, and she stared at him. He closed his eyes and took a breath. “Sorry, please, I can finish it, I’m fine,” he said in a softer tone. He was feeling stupid and helpless enough right now, he didn’t need to be relieved of the modicum of responsibility he still had as well. “I can finish this,” he repeated, not wanting to look at her.

“Okay,” Tamsin agreed. “You can go to your room after.” John nodded tightly, and she left.

There was no point in trying to draw the inventory out. If Cedric requested him that would take precedence over other duties anyway. So John tried to finish it quickly but properly, and then he had to make his way back to his room in the slave quarters. He _did_ have his own room, which was nice, even if it contained little more than a bed and some shelves. He flopped down on the bed, replaying the encounter with Cedric over and over again, trying to prepare himself for spending the night with him. Okay, so, obviously Cedric’s first priority was himself, but John could go along with that, be subservient, service him as he wished. John might not enjoy himself, but there was no need for him to get hurt. Think of it as a one night stand—slip out at the end, come home, take a scalding hot shower, move on.

Only he kept thinking about how Cedric had looked at him, kissed him, said he must be a ‘pain freak.’ Maybe he had something more extensive on his mind. Maybe he thought this was an opportunity for rough sex with someone who could handle it, liked it even. Sherlock never—it seemed ridiculous to say, but John never felt roughly treated by Sherlock, even if he was sore and bruised the next day. Sherlock took care of him, saw that he enjoyed himself, stopped when asked. And the way Cedric looked at him—it was like John was just a _thing_ to be used.

And he was, wasn’t he, John reflected morosely. That was what Sherlock had been trying to tell him, weeks ago—free people, members of the family who owned and operated this compound, could treat slaves however they wanted. And that included rape, beating them if they resisted (or even if they didn’t), even executing them if they fought back. That was the life John had chosen for himself, rather than face certain death after the court martial. He’d lain in his hospital bed in the prison, weighing the choices with the limited information he had, trying to picture the worst possible scenarios, and he’d chosen life in bondage anyway.

Maybe when he’d first arrived here, he would’ve been prepared for someone like Cedric, perhaps found him a dilettante compared to the monsters he’d conjured up. But he’d let himself relax, let himself think it really wasn’t that bad—ironically it was Sherlock’s reputation that kept most people away from him, yet Sherlock had standards John could whole-heartedly embrace. But he didn’t belong to Sherlock exclusively. He’d been stupid, naïve, to think he could get away so easily forever.

The knock at his door startled him and Sally popped her head in. “John, there’s a request for you,” she announced crisply, and ice shot through his stomach.

“Could you—I think I’m sick, could you—“ He did feel like he might throw up.

Sally’s eyebrows rose sharply. “Are you serious?” she demanded. Perhaps if John could manage to roll over and actually puke on the floor in front of her—

“No,” he said firmly, sitting up. “You’re right. This is my life, this is what I do.” He had to face it like a man, not claim illness like a child anxious about a math test.

“Right,” Sally agreed. She had no idea what he was talking about and was too pragmatic to care as long as John was following her out the door promptly. “And get that obnoxious prat out of the slave quarters as fast as possible,” she added with irritation. “He shouldn’t be here.” The slaves had to have _someplace_ where they could relax and be themselves. Well, no, they didn’t _have_ to, they were just _allowed_ —

They stepped into the common room nearest the exit and John froze. It was _Sherlock_ standing there, in his impeccable suit, leaning against the wall as he boredly played with his phone. Cedric was nowhere in sight. John felt rather light-headed and wondered for a moment if he could be hallucinating.

Sherlock looked up at him then, standard imperious expression deepening to a frown as he surveyed John. “John?” Sally prompted. “Maybe you really _are_ sick—“

“No, no, not at all,” John insisted, springing forward. “Thanks. Er, bye.” He felt the urge to grab Sherlock, to make sure he was real and frankly, cling to him in staggering relief, but he didn’t think that would go over well.

Sherlock walked out the door without a word and John hurried after him. “You’re back,” he said stupidly.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, giving him a sideways look.

“How long—how long did you request me for?” John wanted to know.

“Until morning roll call,” Sherlock replied, and John closed his eyes and almost walked into the wall. “You have to appear at evening roll call, though, don’t forget,” he added slowly, eyes flicking over John assessingly.

“Can I just—“ Feeling a peculiar combination of bold and pathetic John grasped at Sherlock’s free hand.

“Okay,” Sherlock allowed, much as one might humor a crazy person. He even put his phone away so as to study this odd behavior more closely, but John didn’t care. Holding Sherlock’s hand made him feel more secure, like he now had an anchor against a tsunami’s power, like there was no possible mistake in who he was supposed to be with—he had half-expected the guards Sherlock had swept past to suddenly call back that John wasn’t supposed to be there.

They were in a quiet corridor of the family zone when John couldn’t take it anymore. “Sorry, I just need to—“ He sat down on a bench, still grasping Sherlock’s hand, feeling woozy.

“What. Is. Wrong with you?” Sherlock asked curiously. He didn’t sound annoyed, just utterly mystified.

John tried to get a hold of himself. “Are you—are you sure Cedric didn’t request me?” he checked, watching Sherlock’s expression closely.

“ _I’ve_ got you, John,” Sherlock reiterated. “For the rest of the evening, and all night. And into the morning, though considering how much sleep you seem to require—“

“But he could still request me later,” John interrupted, almost to himself. “It’s like you said, anyone can, no reason why not, you can’t reserve me all the time, and you leave sometimes—not that you’d _want_ me all the time, I suppose—“ He knew he was babbling at this point, and Sherlock was watching him with raised eyebrows. “Sorry, sorry, I’m just being stupid,” John told him, which really didn’t help the situation. “This wasn’t what you wanted, sorry for derailing—“ He stood up and took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders and trying to focus on the moment, here and now, and not worry about the future. He only had what future others gave him, anyway.

Sherlock didn’t move when John tried to continue their journey, however. Instead he stopped John in place and circled him as best he could while still holding his hand—because no way was John letting go, no matter how ridiculous he appeared. With surprising gentleness Sherlock turned his head to the side and brushed the corner of his jaw, which felt sore to John. He wondered suddenly if he had bruises there from Cedric, and if that would make Sherlock angry, and who exactly he would be angry at. He risked a glance at Sherlock, but his expression was unreadable.

“Come on,” he said finally, and led John around the last stretch of hallway to his suite. Once the door was shut and locked behind them John felt safe, mostly, even when Sherlock pinned him back against it with a hand on either side of his head and his face very close to John’s, blue eyes burning.

“John, I can take care of Cedric,” Sherlock assured him, and it was not at all clear from his tone whether he had known about Cedric’s interest before John mentioned it, or not. “He won’t be asking for you, ever.”

John didn’t know how Sherlock had or would manage that, and frankly given Sherlock’s methods he didn’t _want_ to know. Relief surged over him, and gratitude, even if he knew the actions were self-serving on Sherlock’s part—he didn’t like other people playing with the toys he favored. John slid his hands through Sherlock’s dark hair, pulled him close, and kissed him, sweetly at first but with a rising intensity. Sherlock’s face was still serious, if now flushed, when he leaned back.

“But there are a lot of other people in the house, John,” he warned, and John nodded and hugged him—hugged him!—wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s narrow waist and resting his head on his shoulder.

“I know, I know,” he agreed.

“Guests, too,” Sherlock went on. “You have to be careful, John. If someone requests you, or shows interest, don’t give them a reason to punish you.” He sounded like a forest ranger, John thought wildly, giving advice to a very stupid-looking hiker, whose estimated survival time in the woods was not very high. In other words, like John was being deeply, shockingly foolish. “You should talk to Molly, practice with—“

Intertwined as they were Sherlock felt John’s whole body tense again. “G-d, Molly! What if—what if Cedric—“ A sudden panic gripped him. “You have to send for Molly,” he insisted to Sherlock. Molly was well-known as a favorite of Sherlock’s, what was to stop Cedric from ordering _her_ up instead and taking out his frustrations—“Molly, you have to get—“

“Molly’s fine, John—“

John was beyond listening to reason. He felt so helpless, so out of control of his own life—one of his friends could get hurt and there would be nothing he could do about it, no way he could intervene—no one cared what happened to slaves here, it was almost worse that nominally there were some laws, because that meant people would sit and listen to you patiently and fill out some paperwork and then sweep it all under the rug. He was totally dependent on someone like Sherlock to act _for_ him, dependent on Sherlock’s whims and inclinations, which were far from charitable. “Just—please—Molly—“

“Alright, John, alright, I’ll send for Molly,” Sherlock agreed, taking out his phone. “John, I do need _both_ hands to do this—“

John tried to content himself with hanging onto Sherlock’s ribs, watching him flip expertly through some central website John didn’t have access to, where human beings could be reserved as easily as rental cars. In this moment John was glad for it, though. Except for when Sherlock frowned—

“Has he gotten her already?” John asked with dread.

“No, John,” Sherlock replied, and now he _was_ becoming irritated. “I’ve requested her, she’ll be here in a few minutes. You’re being tiresome now.”

“Sorry,” John said, trailing him to the couch. He was not offended to be told this; Sherlock found many things tiresome, and he had been more tolerant so far than John had expected. John sat down right next to him, practically on his lap, and started to nuzzle his neck, trying to improve the situation he’d obviously dampened.

Sherlock had other ideas, though. “John, you may stop doing that.”

“What? Kissing you?” That seemed like a bad sign.

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed, and John pulled back. Sherlock kept his arm around his shoulders, though. “You are not calm and focused, John,” he judged. “That is what I desire. So, I am willing to comfort you.”

He seemed very serious as he said this, but John burst into a grin. “Really?”

“If it will produce the desired state.”

“I think it will,” John encouraged.

“Then I wish you would’ve mentioned it earlier, John,” Sherlock criticized, clearly not having begun the ‘comforting’ portion yet. “You can’t expect me to think of _everything_.”

“But you’re the _master_ ,” John pointed out cheekily. “Can I put my head in your lap?”

“If you like.” John squirmed down on the couch. A pillow might’ve made things more comfortable, but he wanted as little as possible between him and Sherlock right now. Long fingers started combing through his hair, massaging his scalp, and he closed his eyes with a sigh. “Relax, John,” Sherlock told him, in a voice that almost sounded like he really knew what ‘comforting’ meant. “You’re safe here, you’re safe with me.” The fingers trailed down to the back of his neck, stroking gently. “Trust your master. You’re alright, John. You’re fine.” Something about his voice filled John’s entire brain, enveloped him in a strange kind of security—it seemed wrong, twisted, unhealthy when John examined it closely so he just didn’t, just let it penetrate his cells and calm him. He didn’t even realize Sherlock had stopped talking until a knock on the door highlighted the silence.

“I’ll let Molly in,” Sherlock informed him, scooting out from under John, who curled up more on the couch. It was almost disturbing how much better he felt, nearly to the point of feeling foolish for his earlier distress.

“You’re back!” Molly said with excitement, giving Sherlock a hug and a kiss.

“Obviously. John’s here.” Molly was not disappointed by this; she liked John a lot, too. “He’s been having some emotional difficulties but I think I’ve got him sorted now.”

Molly bounced over to John and climbed on top of him, giving him a full-body hug. “Poor John! He’s sensitive, you know.”

“G-d, am I?” John asked with dismay. It was not the first word he would have used for himself. He wanted to tell Molly what had happened to him but at the same time he didn’t want to dwell on it anymore.

“It may be time to try the feather whisk on him then,” Sherlock said thoughtfully, and Molly made a strange sound, somewhere between anticipation and alarm. John was not sure if his situation had improved or not.


End file.
